From the moment the men had raised their weapons, Sarah had held her breath and counted the footsteps. She guessed there were twelve to fifteen soldiers in the squad.
She hid the muzzle of her AK-47 behind the edge of the refuse container. “I dare you,” she whispered. “I double-dog dare you…”
She peeked around the bin and used her gun barrel to move a piece of cardboard that hung limply from the lip of the dumpster. The men snapped to attention, turned, and rejoined their group. Sarah stood and walked past the containers.
“Sarah.”
“What?”
When Morgana didn’t answer, Sarah walked slowly backward until she could see her partner and the baby in her periphery. “You OK?”
“The dumpsters…,” Morgana said, shielding the baby’s face with her free hand. “They’re not putting trash in the dumpsters.”
The object that had been blocking her view hadn’t been cardboard at all. It had fingers and polished nails. A trickle of blood dripped over a gleaming silver wedding band to the crimson concrete below.
“Breathe, Morgana.”
“But they’re—”
“I know,” Sarah replied. “We’ve got to get to the church.”
“But the church isn’t protecting—”
“We have to try!”
Sarah checked the streets twice before beckoning Morgana out of the alley. She swung the gun wildly toward each window, doorway, and gaping hole—which were as numerous as any other apertures into the homes. Flares arced over the buildings three or four blocks away, and the booms from shells could be heard from much farther out. The heavy cannons of the Northern Organizational Militia had moved off this sector, leaving the stormtrooper squads to go house-to-house, targeting undesirables.
Sarah dashed between houses, trying not to look at the church because of the potential for tunnel vision. They were too close to potential safety for them to fall to something stupid.
Three houses to go. The white stairs in front of the cathedral gleamed. The flares bathed the lush red carpet on the church steps like a pulsing, narrow landing beacon for wayward planes. Two buildings. One building.
Sarah looked for a side entrance into the church but saw none. She motioned for Morgana to hide herself and the child while she searched for a back entrance off the main, well-lit street. Morgana nodded, and Sarah sprinted down the alley.
As she neared a T-junction with the back alley, an awful cacophony of synchronized boot-steps greeted her, and she hugged the wall and ducked behind an air-conditioning unit. She crouched and backed away toward her waiting partner and the infant.
“No luck?”
“Militia,” Sarah said, shaking her head and looking at the crimson and orange sky that signaled the coming sunrise. “We’re going to have to try the front door.”
“But it’s suicide—”
“So is sitting here.”
Sarah grabbed Morgana by her arm, squeezing her bicep as she pulled her toward the short white steps. They leapt up the stairs two at a time, and Sarah let go of Morgana so she could swing her gun at any approaching threat as she backed up the last few stairs.
Morgana rushed ahead of her and rapped on the door. “Help! We need asylum! Please let us in!”
Sarah continued to ascend the stairs until her back was flush with her lover.
“Please,” Morgana yelled at the door. “The militia are everywhere. We have a young child—an infant! You have to take us in!”
“Are you alone, senorita?” a weak voice asked from inside.
“No. I have a child.”
The locks turned and clicked. After three or four deadbolts, a heavy lever slid into place, and the large, red door creaked open enough for a single eye to appraise them.
“Don’t move,” the man said. “I have a weapon.”
“Please give us shelter,” Morgana begged.
“We’ve been given strict orders by the Militia,” he said, eyes flitting between her and Sarah. “If we break them, we’ll be targeted too. They only want you. No one else.”
“But we have a child,” Sarah said.
“Her name is Suzanna,” Morgana said. “And I am Morgana. This is Sarah.”
His eyes bounced between them, and the door jostled back and forth as his mind undoubtedly wrestled between hiding and helping.
“I am Joseph—Joseph Alvarez.”
“Pleased to meet you, Father Joseph,” Sarah said, inching closer. “Now that we’ve been introduced, can you please let us in?”
The priest started to close the door, but Sarah stuck her left hand into the crack. He pulled hard, but she refused to yield.
“Father, that does hurt like hell, you know?”
He relented but refused to widen the door any farther. His eyes pleaded with them to let him be.
“I can’t endanger the parish,” he said. “Please leave. If you don’t go, they’ll target us.”
“Isn’t the whole point of the church to aid those in need?” Sarah screamed back at him. “Didn’t Jesus preach forgiveness and tolerance—even when his enemies were torturing and killing him?”
“I’m not Jesus,” he said, whimpering as he resumed pulling on the door again.
“That’s painfully obvious,” Sarah said. She grunted as her fingers crunched against the frame. “Please stop crushing my hand.”
“We have a child,” Morgana reasserted, pushing Suzanna over Sarah’s shoulder so the preacher could see her. A shell exploded nearby, and the child resumed crying for the first time since she had gnawed on the straw. “Suzanna’s done nothing wrong. You must protect the innocent.”
“Give her to me,” he said.
“Are you insane?” Sarah asked. “Is this really your compromise?”
“The memos from the Militia didn’t say anything about children,” Joseph said. “They’ll never know where she came from.”
“No,” Morgana said, clutching Suzanna to her chest. “You can’t. I won’t let you. We’ve waited too long—”
Sarah removed her hand from the door since Joseph seemed content to wait on their decision. She shouldered her gun and grabbed Morgana by the cheeks. “Babe—”
“Seven years, Sarah.”
“I know.”
“I can’t—”
“I know,” Sarah said as she stroked Morgana’s face.
“She needs someone to look after her.”
“We have food,” Joseph said, widening the crack and exposing his finely-manicured beard and curly black hair.
Sarah lifted the gun and turned on him. “Of course you do! You have sold your soul to the devil for a moment’s respite. They’ll come after you next—you who are not like them.”
“I protect my flock!” he yelled back.
“You protect only those who are easiest to defend. You think God is smiling down on—?”
“Stop it,” Morgana said. “Just stop it!”
She kissed the child on the forehead and cheeks as she pushed Sarah aside and approached the door. She squeezed Suzanna until she stopped crying and giggled.
“You’ll take care of her?”
“I’ll protect her with my life,” the preacher said.
“You coward,” Sarah said as she shook her head and kicked at the red carpeting along the foot of the doorframe. “You damned coward…”
Morgana hurriedly kissed Suzanna a dozen more times before her arms had the strength to push the child any farther. Tears streamed down her face as the baby’s small hands reached for her.
“Don’t worry,” Joseph said as he took the child into his arms. “I’ll defend her with my life.”
“You better,” Sarah said. “Because once NOM’s moved onto the next group in their crosshairs, I’m coming back to this church. You can count on it.”
A sobbing Morgana backed away as the priest accepted Suzanna and pulled the child into the church.
Sarah’s eyes bounced from her crying partner back to the priest. “She better be here when we com
e back.”
The priest nodded as he shut the door.
The sound of synchronized boot-steps echoed down the street. They were not alone.
“Come on,” Sarah said, pulling her inconsolable partner back down the stairs and into the alley as the sun burst over the horizon, bathing the avenue in brightness.
*
Joseph grabbed a blanket from a nearby pew and wrapped tiny Suzanna into it. The baby cried as he carried her down the aisle toward the stairs that led into the kitchen, where milk and baby food were still in supply and two dozen parishioners quivered. As the familiar ratta tat tat of an AK-47 pierced the stone walls, Suzanna screamed despite his attempts to mollify her.
“There, there,” he said. “Your mothers will be back soon.”
She seemed unconvinced. Bullets ricocheted from nearby buildings and guns and grenades joined in as men wailed and screamed.
Joseph dashed into the stairwell with the child tucked snuggly into his armpit. As the darkness enveloped him, so did quietness and a sense of immunity from harm that he had always felt in the church before NOM had begun their assaults on the undesirables.
“You’re safe,” he said, more to himself than the child. “You’re safe.”
Author’s Note
In recent years, conservative groups like the National Organization for Marriage have been waging a war against civil unions and marriages amongst same sex couples—generally under the banner of protecting biblical ideologies and the sanctity of marriage. To further pollute and polarize the conversation, these groups have proposed such agendas as placing all lesbians and gays into an electrified pens, planning to drive a wedge between ethnic minorities and the homosexual minority with divisive tactics, and actively preventing homosexuals from seeking civil unions, adoption, tax breaks from such legal unions, and the life every human being deserves to pursue.
Fortunately or unfortunately, this conflict has made its way into the 2012 Presidential Race at a time when thirty of the fifty states in the United States actively prevent marriage, any type of union or adoption by same sex couples. But the issue is by no means an American-only one. It is routinely estimated by surveys that the homosexual population amongst human beings hovers between 3-5% of the world population, with only 1-3% willing to report their sexual preferences. And the rest of the western world doesn’t do much better with the issue than we do. Recent polls have shown that 89% of Polish voters disagree fundamentally with allowing same sex couples to adopt, and I have no doubt that they will continue to vote accordingly.
But as an American, I hope we can do better. We are a great country—one of innovation, freedom, and tolerance. We overcame our prejudices in the 1960s and returned the natural rights of African Americans. As a southerner, it pains me to think that we could have once been so backward and used the Bible to defend our prejudices, malice, and oppression.
And yet here we are, in the twenty-first century, proposing to place lesbians and gays into electrically-charged fences to ensure they starve to death—as if the problem was homosexuals breeding more homosexuals. The truth is that homosexuality has been a part of humanity throughout our historical record, and it will continue to show up in our children and our children’s children thanks to evolution, natural selection, and the methods in which populations adapt, grow, and mature.
And just as we pass down our features to our children, so do we often deflect our problems to them. Perhaps my generation will fail in this great civil liberties problem. We may not be strong enough—financially or politically—to effect this monumental change in national mindset, of which our parents and their parents are such strong supporters. But I hope we are made of sterner stuff, and if we are not, I certainly hope the next one is—because oppression, intolerance, and persecution should not be our continuing legacy. Let them be our past—another lesson in a long chain of parental hand-me-downs that define who we were and not who we will continue to be.
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Rex Jameson wears pink cowboy hats to get free beers in conservative Texas towns.
Find more information on Rex and his books at www.rex-jameson.com, or follow him on Facebook and Twitter
Books by Rex:
Lucifer’s Odyssey (novel)
The Goblin Rebellion (novel)
Angels and Demons: Perspectives of a Violent Afterlife (novelette)
Elves and Goblins: Perspectives of a Father’s Rebellion.
Shero: Glam, Bam, Thank you, Ma’am!
Jack Wallen
And it came to pass, on this day some thirty years ago, that our hero was ordained to minister to the wounds of the fallen. His mighty sword would seek vengeance upon all those who dare festoon themselves in a blackened cloak of evil.
Hey! Who are you and what in the Hell are you doing narrating my story? Get the… oh, pardon me my lovelies, but I have to oust this crusty old, moth-ball-smelling wind bag. Now, where was I? Oh yeah… Do you think for one second you gots what it takes to tell the story of Shero? Hmmm? I don’t think so. Now get your ascot-wearing ass outta my chair, and hike it back to Kmart and buy yourself some knee high socks ta go wit ‘dem sandals!
Go, I give you leave… zzz zzz zzz!
Thank you for hanging around while I gave that dust bag what for. I take it he didn’t really get into the story yet. No? Good. Let me paint a picture for ya, m’kay?
BAM! POW!
Chapter Now!
“Ladies, ladies, listen up. We have a lot to get through tonight, so we don’t have time for the usual cat fights, panty line sissy fits, wig pulling, make up drama, coke lines, and… bitch, please, don’t tell me you have your tranny phone outta yo purse and up in your ear?”
Della Catessen was, in fact, crying into her mobile. Her sugar daddy had just kicked her out of the house for tramping it up with the neighborhood watch — the entire watch — all at once.
Dayam!
“Baby… please don’t…” Della wailed and dropped to her knees.
“Bitch done fucked up the las’ man that’ll have it. That ol’ man-snatch ain’t evah gonna see it some meat again.” Sugah Brown snapped her fingers, turned on her ballet stilettos, marched up stage to the MC, and grabbed his mic.
“Honey, it’s time you done moved on wit’ yo life. And if you can’t do that, leave us the fuck out of it. We gots ta get our glam on and we gots ta do it now! You unnahstand what you messin’ wit’? Dis is the show a shows for us wanna be hos. One of us is gonna walk outta hur tomorrow night the Queen a Queens, and I’ll be damned sho if I’m gonna let some raggedy ass pair of meat curtains like you fuck up mah chances. Now git yo ass up off dat floor and show us all ya still gots some dignity in that pussy.”
The theatre went silent, save for the sniffling of Miss Catessen and the puckering lips of Sugah.
“Ladies please… ” The MC started.
“Bitch, please! This is my moment.”
Sugah Brown testified to the heavens to bring yet another silence to the room.
“You may proceed.”
“Thank you… Miss Brown.” The MC waited for the inevitable interruption from one of the queens. When none came, he continued on.
“As you all know, this is the rehearsal for the big event. You’ve all made it to the final round and tomorrow one of you will be crowned Miss Trans World.”
“Tell us somethin’ we don’t know cutie pie!” Kitten Kaboodle waved a flirtatious hand before pulling her fake tail up to her mouth and giving it a good tongue bath.
Rowr, kitty — I know a narrator that could use a good tongue-ing.
Oh…ummm…back to the show.
The MC cleared his throat (of whatever was delivered into it the night before) and continued on.
“Well, ladies… ” He almost braved an ‘air quoting’. “There is something you do not know about tomorrow’s event. We have lined up a rather special judge for the competition.”
Jean Pool rolled her eyes so hard her falsies stuck. Three queens came to her rescue. They sav
ed her just before she was lost from the story entirely.
Whew! Would hate to see the great Jean Pool cleared out.
Anyway…
“Our special guest is none other than… ”
“We already know, ya whore! It’s the God damn tranny-lovin’ mayor again. Am I wrong? Fuck me up the ass if I’m wrong.” With her eyelashes unstuck, Jean Pool was getting nasty.
“Wrong-o-matic, Miss Pool. Anyone else care to take a guess or should I just lay my cards on the table?”
Cricket. Cricket.
“It’s Shero!”
And the crowd went wild. Bras and panties flew in three hundred and sixty degrees. Cindy Lauper dropped down from the ceiling and sang a rousing ‘Girls Just Want to Have Fun’. It was mass hysteria.
Meanwhile, in…
Chapter Shoo
There are villains, and then there are villains. Deep in the heart of teeming beasts lay the darkest of hate, the maddest of men. And few, if any, men were nasty enough to want stand between a drag queen and her pageant.
There’s always one.
Mr. Mayhem was that man. Or, should I say, was once that woman?
Bwahaha!
Mr. Mayhem was born Nancy Newcum. She knew from an early age that she despised womanhood. Every aspect of the double-X chromosome filled her with a rage she couldn’t shake. It wasn’t until she turned twenty-one, and had the funds for the hormone therapy and breast reduction that Nancy Newcum became Mr. Marvin Mayhem.
But, like all good stories of evil, that hormone therapy didn’t go as planned. Thanks to an ironic switch in vials — Newcum was injected with dirty, evil hormones taken from none other than Adolph Hitler.
Dum, dum, dummmm!
And Mr. Mayhem was born.
With the odd mixture of Hitler Hormones and bitterness of one too many rejections, Mayhem set out to destroy those that pranced around in celebration of all things female. And who better than to start with than drag queens? No one celebrated femme more than trannies.
As Mayhem sat at his dressing table, penciling in his Roger Water’s-thin moustachio, his Boy Friday appeared at his side — clad in nothing more than two tiny strips of electrical tape across the nipples.